iprotectyou | OOM: A Gift of Tea

Baze has been waiting for this day--the seventh of the second month--for weeks.

He's been keeping a secret from Chirrut: when they visited the temple for the last time after it fell, Baze retrieved his stash of sapir tea from its hiding place--behind a brick in the wall of a closet in the training hall, untouched in the raid.

Now, Baze has woken up early, before Chirrut, to prepare the tea. The larger Jedhan waits the requisite thirty seconds for their tap water to turn from red to black to something approximating clear, and then fills the kettle. Carefully separating the proper amount of tea leaves from what remains of the block, he fills the pot's strainer with sapir. The process is meditative, and silent--save the whistling of the kettle, which Baze removes from the heat as soon as possible. He pours the water into the pot, encouraged by the scent of green and growing things--a scent he hasn't smelled in far, far too long.

He allows the tea to steep for a few minutes, and then crosses to his sleeping friend, only to gently shake him awake. It's been years since Chirrut has had his tea, and Baze wants it to be the first thing he has upon waking.

"Happy birthday, Chirrut," Baze says with a soft, pleased smile, pressing the cup of precious sapir into his friend's hand.

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"Of course your morning was productive - you found me, didn't you?" Chirrut asks, ignoring Baze's look despite how the Force tells him about it. "Were you hoping to find multiple of me?"

Baze gives up. He can't stay annoyed at Chirrut for long. The larger man laughs, shaking his head.

"I don't think my heart can handle multiples of you," Baze says, nudging his friend. "Especially since they'd all be as secretive."

Hint, hint.

Chirrut joins in the laughter, the sound pealing over the square.

"Tell me what you see." He demands, ignoring the hint entirely and leaning on his friend instead. He enjoys hearing about how Baze interprets the world, often full of sarcastic asides and observations that his senses just don't pick up.

Baze snorts. "For starters, I see how it is. I also see a brat who needs to finish off his bao and tell his friend what they're having for dinner," Baze says, pressing another cold steamed bun into Chirrut's hands.

"And I see three more brats, one of whom is stealing some unsuspecting tourist's purse. I see the woman with that soup that's comprised of leftovers that she continually adds to, haggling with a different vendor. I see the tilemaker cheating on his wife with the bread seller."

"The bread-seller? Drat, I thought it was the locksmith." Chirrut grumbles around a mouth of bao. "Or maybe it's also the locksmith. Where does he find the time?"

"It's entirely possible that he's cheating with both the bread-seller and the locksmith," Baze says, scratching his beard.

"He's going to have a lot of angry people coming after his head soon, if he gets found out. That locksmith has a mean left hook."

"What have you been doing to the poor locksmith? Doesn't he have enough on his plate?" Chirrut chides, laughingly.

"I have never fought the 'poor' locksmith!" Baze says, wheezing with laughter. "He's kind to me, and I'm kind to him, too, though he charges too much for his services. I hear he fights in underground sparring matches for money, though. Not that I know anything about those."

"Now there's a thought..." Chirrut grins, wolfishly. "Do you think they'd allow staves?"

Baze disapproves of that grin, and those words, and this idea in general. He presses down on Chirrut's shoulder, not trying to force him to his knees, but trying to keep him in place.

"Don't you even think it," Baze says, his tone desert dry. "Don't you dare. For one, they'd have to allow the both of us at once, and you know I don't do hand-to-hand or staffwork anymore."

Chirrut cackles at the sudden wave of disapproval.

"Alright, alright, I'll just continue to beat up Imperials for free, shall I?" He asks, keeping his voice down since he knows all types frequent the square.

Baze catches his friend by the collar and shakes him like a rag doll.

"Stop planning," Baze snaps. "Just... Just stop. I can hear you plotting, and I don't want to have you be any part of that. You're above that."

Chirrut laughs, unresisting.

"Alright, alright, relax. Should we go back? Everything is probably set up." He suggests, unconcerned (evidently) about Baze's threats.

"Yes, let's," Baze says, still with a sour taste in his mouth. If Chirrut does fight in the rings... Baze isn't sure what he'd do with him. The larger Jedhan has the sinking feeling that he's going to have to cross that bridge when he comes to it, and Chirrut will credit his eventual success--because Baze can't think of him failing--to the Force.

Baze sighs, and tries to put that out of his mind on the way home. It's not like Chirrut has already gone and fought in the rings. But Baze is kicking himself for bringing them up in the first place.

Chirrut tugs Baze up the stairs towards their little apartment, narrowly dodging the ragged pits in the floor. There, at the door, is a pot, tied closed with an old strip of ribbon and smelling faintly of deliciousness. It rests upon another sealed box, the metal sides faintly rusted. Both have 'property of Chirrut Imwe' stamped across them, keeping them safe.

"Well? Did she deliver?"

"She did," Baze says, gazing at the pot and box in wonder. He instantly yearns to know what's inside the box. The aroma of the soup--because Baze is pretty sure that's the pot's contents--makes his mouth water.

He breaks off from his friend to pick up the delivery, letting him open the door. Once they're inside, Baze sets the pot and box on top of the counter, and unties the ribbon. He hums happily as he finds their two wooden bowls and a ladle. Taking the lid off is an experience. Fragrant steam rises from the soup, and Baze's mouth waters again as he scoops the deliciousness out into the bowls.

"Here, Chirrut. Come get your soup."

After passing Chirrut's soup to him, Baze seizes upon the box. Teara sting his eyes when he sees fresh bread and a little cake.

Chirrut's smile is kyber-bright, both from his own success and from Baze's delight echoing in the Force. He stretches up to kiss Baze on the cheek as he takes his bowl, giddy.

"Happy Birthday, my heart." He beams, "And here's to many more, in happier times."

Chirrut kisses are the best kisses. He doesn't give many, so Baze treasures every one. He smiles, delight pouring off him in waves, and cuts up the bread. Pressing a thick slice into Chirrut's hand, Baze returns the kiss to the cheek with one of his own.

"Happy birthday, dear one," Baze says, and picks up a piece of bread to drag through his soup.

OOM: A Gift of Tea

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